


Flowers of War

by yoshizora



Series: Pre-Flamebringer [6]
Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 13:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14356770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: An old Gormotti woman invites Mòrag to tea.





	Flowers of War

**Author's Note:**

> i don't really have a specific time in mind for this, but Mòrag's been Special Inquisitor long enough for people to recognize her
> 
> also i didn't tag for f/f cuz while moraghid is present, it's not the focus of the story

“You…”

The voice is soft, almost too quiet for Mòrag to even hear over the din of the marketplace, but a tug at her sleeve gets her attention. She stops, turns, and looks down at the old Gormotti woman who had grabbed her. Brighid stops as well, but the woman is only peering up at Mòrag.

“Are you the Special Inquisitor?”

Mòrag politely nods, allowing the woman to hold onto her sleeve. “Yes, I am. May I help you?”

She can’t help but stare; the woman is so _old._ Her eyes are hidden beneath wrinkles and the fur upon her ears is patchy and white, and her back is uncomfortably hunched over from the years. But, her gummy smile is cheery enough and she seems excited when Mòrag confirms her title.

“Ah, wonderful, wonderful! My grandson had recently joined the military, and he’s been away so long— my husband and I have been missing him, you see, and now it’s only the two of us at home, our own children are no longer— oh, am I rambling again? Pardon me. Come, Special Inquisitor, this way…”

Before Mòrag can even process what the old woman had been going on about she’s being tugged along. She throws a helpless glance at Brighid and shrugs, letting herself to be led away. They’re off-duty. No harm in humoring an old woman for a while.

Brighid frowns but says nothing as she trails after them.

They weave through the crowds in the market until they’re crossing the bridge into the residential area. All along the way, the old Gormotti woman continues to talk about nothing in particular as if she’s just talking for the sake of talking, not even giving Mòrag a chance to get a word in. She only pauses to catch her breath at the top of some stairs.

“This way, this way…”

Mòrag’s mouth twitches into an amused smile as she helps the woman down the steps. “Where are you taking me, exactly?”

“Just my house, for some tea. Ohh, I know my husband would love to meet you. The Special Inquisitor of Mor Ardain, coming for a visit! Such an honor.”

“It’s no trouble at all, ma’am.”

She glances at Brighid again, raising a brow. Gormotti civilians largely either ignore them or give them the cold shoulder. This, as strange and abrupt as it is, is a pleasant change of pace that isn’t entirely unwelcome. Brighid throws up her hands and shakes her head, a silent _do what you like_ directed at Mòrag. The old woman is completely oblivious to their wordless exchange as she leads Mòrag through a narrow walkway that the sunlight doesn’t hit. Brighid’s glow provides barely enough for Mòrag to see; she has to wonder how the old woman can even navigate her way around so effortlessly.

At last, they reach a small door coated with peeling paint. The old woman mumbles more nothings to either herself or Mòrag as she pushes the door open and shuffles inside, motioning to them to come along.

“Don’t mind the clutter, haven’t had a chance to clean, no need to take your boots off either. Come in, you two, come in! I’ll start the tea.”

“Who’s that you got with you?” A deep, gravelly voice calls from somewhere within. The old woman’s husband, Mòrag presumes.

“It’s the Special Inquisitor!”

“Ehh?”

“I said, it’s the Special Inquisitor!”

It’s dark inside. Brighid is careful of where she steps, conscious of all the (flammable) dust and hair and fluff that seems to coat everything. The old woman wasn’t quite exaggerating when she had mentioned _clutter_ , and Mòrag reflexively wrinkles her nose at the disorganized chaos. She’s too used to things being pristine and airy, not… cramped, and messy, and the smell of old mothballs permeating through everything.

But they are guests, and Mòrag knows far better than to make a comment about it. They follow the old woman to a small kitchen, where Mòrag and Brighid are forced to duck in order to avoid brushing their heads against all the pots and pans and herbs hanging from the low ceiling. There’s a faded picture on the wall, of a younger pair of Gormotti and their child between them.

Brighid stares at it just a little longer than necessary, but only Mòrag notices.

A wizened Gormotti man is already seated at the table, his gnarled and spotty fingers intertwined together. Beneath his furry brows, he glares suspiciously at the pair. Mòrag removes her hat and nods.

“Apologies for the intrusion, sir. You and your wife have a… lovely home.”

“Bah!” The old man waves a hand. “It’s a mess, you can say it. Can’t clean well these days, what with the cramps and aches and whatnots in these old bones. But forget about it. So you’re the Special Inquisitor everyone in town’s been talking about lately, eh?”

“Yes, that’s right,” she says in a carefully neutral tone, to avoid sounding either haughty or humble. “My name is—“

“Special Inquisitor!” The old woman chirps. She’s holding up two tin containers. “Melosian Honey or Shepherd’s Purse?”

“Melosian Honey would be quite fine, thank you.”

“How about your Blade?”

Brighid’s jaw slightly twitches, a gesture only recognizable to Mòrag as a sign of her growing ire. It’s the first time the old woman had directly acknowledged Brighid. Mòrag touches her arm, just briefly.

“Melosian Honey as well,” Brighid lightly says.

“Have a seat, then. Go on.” The old man gestures to the other chairs around the table. Mòrag and Brighid oblige. The chairs loudly creak; Mòrag wouldn’t be surprised if the wood is as old as these Gormotti themselves.

As the woman busies herself with a tea kettle, the old man leans forward (in his equally creaky chair) and scrutinizes them both.

“… You Ardainians are so pale. Don’t you ever get any sunlight?”

“Hush, dear. Don’t be rude.”

“Bah. Are you using the special tea? That expensive one?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

The old man settles back in his seat with a huff, never taking his beady eyes away from Mòrag. Even she begins to feel rather uncomfortable beneath his stare, but she keeps her face set in a neutral smile. Brighid can tell exactly what she’s thinking.

It’s rare for elderly Gormotti to be so forthcoming and hospitable, especially to Ardainians. _Especially_ to those associated with the military. Mòrag has endured plenty of glares and hisses from civilians in Torigoth, and on more than one occasion a stray rock has been thrown at her from some child too young to truly understand why such animosity exists between the two races. She’s used to it by now, but Brighid knows how much it stings her, especially since Mòrag had spent a good part of her childhood in Gormott.

Here they are, sitting in a tiny dusty kitchen, being treated to tea by an old Gormotti woman who had recognized Mòrag’s uniform on the street. How quaint.

“You mentioned you have a grandson in our military?” Mòrag asks.

“Yes, yes! Not as a Driver, though…”

“He was too scared to try,” the old man declares with a huff.

“Nonsense.” The old woman is shuffling to the table now, carrying a tray with the tea and cups set on it. The porcelain gently clatters as her hands shake. “He’s a fine young man with or without a Blade. Anyway, here— no, don’t get up, I can handle it, I’ll pour for everyone.”

Much to both Mòrag and Brighid’s relief, the woman is able to set the tray down without dropping anything in spite of her hands shaking. She carefully pours the tea— it’s pale, but blossoms into a more vibrant hue when it comes into contact with the extra flowers at the bottom of the cups. Mòrag and Brighid nod their thanks.

“Drink up while it’s hot!”

Mòrag delicately raises the cup. Her lips touch the rim, the steam swirling up across her nose, and she pauses. The old man and woman are already sipping at their tea.

Her eyes flit to Brighid. She hasn’t taken a drink either.

“… What’s the matter, Special Inquisitor?” The old woman’s hands are still shaking as she drinks her tea. Mòrag sets the cup down.

“Did you want a snack to go along with your tea? I have some biscuits somewhere in the cupboards—“

Mòrag’s eyes are as cold as ice. She neatly laces her fingers beneath her chin, elbows resting on the table.

The air suddenly feels even more stifling than it was before, in this cramped and cluttered kitchen.

“Fatal Belladonna,” Mòrag slowly says, enunciating the words loudly enough that the old man flinches. “Is a species of flower native to Mor Ardain. As the name suggests, it’s lethal when consumed, but can be actually used in medicine in small amounts when dried and carefully processed.”

The old woman is breathing hard. Tea sloshes over her hands and she hisses, dropping her cup onto the table where it cracks in half. The liquid bleeds across the tablecloth.

“However, I doubt you had gone to the great lengths required to extract the poisons when you slipped one into my cup.”

All that tension finally snaps.

“— _You Ardainian scum!_ ” The old woman shrieks, standing up so quickly that they can hear her joints crackle and the table violently jerks. “We’ll never forgive your wretched country for what they did to Gormott!”

Her husband stands as well but his fury is more quiet, seething beneath his heavy brows. “Our daughter— her husband too, they were casualties of the Gormotti War. They were _civilians._ And then our idiot grandson went and joined the very people who murdered his parents! It’s all your fault! You’ve been brainwashing all our children into fighting for you killers, to become killers themselves!”

Mòrag calmly places her hat back upon her head and pushes her chair back. The old woman shrieks again and throws a piece of the broken cup at her— she tilts her head to the side, and the porcelain shard crashes against the wall behind her.

“Do you have _any_ idea what you’ve just done?” Brighid’s flames threaten to ignite the plants hanging above them. “The attempted assassination of an official is a crime punishable by death.”

The old woman screeches. “ _The gun, dear!!_ ”

His joints are too stiff to act quickly. Mòrag spots the jerky movement of the old man reaching behind his back and kicks the gun out of his grasp the second he has it out. He yelps and stumbles back, clutching his wrist, and his wife rushes to his side.

“How dare you?! Hurting a helpless old man… filthy Ardainian! Trash! Military dog!”

Brighid is furious, but she falters when Mòrag extends a hand to her. Her eyes are still so _cold._

“Brighid. Fetch an officer and a couple soldiers to escort them. I’ll see to it that these two face the consequences of their actions.”

“… Right away, Lady Mòrag.”

Reluctantly she leaves, and she can hear the old man and woman still howling their venom at Mòrag even when she's out the door.

 

* * *

 

They don’t put up much of a fight. _Can’t_ put up much of a fight. Their vitriol is redirected at the soldiers who take them away to face their judgment, and all’s quiet once more in that little kitchen.

Mòrag hasn’t moved at all from where she had been standing all this time, nor had she drawn her swords once. Once the soldiers and the old Gormotti couple are gone, her shoulders slump and she exhales, her breath shaking. Brighid can see the way her back is still tensed.

“Lady Mòrag?”

“I’m… fine,” Mòrag softly says. Brighid takes her by the shoulders and turns her around, carefully removing her hat to better see her face, illuminated only by her flames. “It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

“You’re not fine.” She smooths Mòrag’s hair down. Mòrag closes her eyes at the comforting touch, all the pain and shock she had been hiding all along finally beginning to show themselves in small trembles and uneasy frowns.

“I had suspected it from the very start, actually,” she admits. “But I thought… I had just wanted to make sure.”

They both glance at the tea still set out on the table. It’s long cold by now.

“I suppose I had raised my hopes too high.”

“Do you think they sought you out specifically?”

Mòrag shakes her head. “It could have been any other Ardainian soldier foolish enough to follow that old woman back to her home for tea. I was simply an opportunity they couldn’t pass on.”

Brighid holds out her arms. An offer. Mòrag gladly accepts it and steps forward, resting her chin on Brighid’s shoulder and allowing her to wrap her warmth around her. Now, Brighid can properly feel the tremors in her muscles, the sadness wrenching its way through Mòrag’s body.

“… There was so much hatred in their eyes.”

“Will you be alright, Lady Mòrag?”

Hatred is never something anyone should be accustomed to, Mòrag thinks. She’s all too familiar with the tensions between the Gormotti and Ardainians, and had experienced plenty of those hostilities herself, but she refuses to acclimate herself to it. She won’t become complacent to that, because that would become the day when it means there’s nothing that can be done about it.

Even if it means continuously suffering the brunt of their hatred, she won’t give in.

The hatred of the old Gormotti couple still burns at her heart. Brighid knows this, and gently runs her hands across her back.

“… Yes.” Mòrag presses herself closer to Brighid, tightly holding her as if she’s a lifeline. She's warm. So warm. “Yes, I’ll manage.”


End file.
